


The Blip

by KINGOFMODS



Category: The Who
Genre: Drug Use, Fluff, Hallucinations, LSD, M/M, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:22:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KINGOFMODS/pseuds/KINGOFMODS
Summary: The boys stay the night in a very nice hotel. Things take a dark turn.During the time where Pete still took LSD.





	The Blip

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still pretty new to The Who as a group and was frightened at the idea of writing them but eventually went... yknow? Fuck it. 
> 
> Also...I've never taken acid BUT I read up on a bunch of bad trip forums and many people spoke of horrific experiences involving the strange sensation that everyone was turning on them.  
> I tried to incorporate that and dabble in bits taken from other people's experiences/symptoms to make it seem as legit as possible.  
> If there are any inaccuracies involving the drug at this point I don't really care. I'm just a guy trying to have a slice of fun pie.
> 
> ON THAT NOTE: THIS PIECE ISN'T EDITED. I just wrote this shit up and decided to toss it online for the homies.  
> Comments are always appreciated tho... <3 lemme know what u think!

Upon slamming the door shut is when things _really_ started to kick in.

Numerous echoes of a thousand doors being slammed followed after him. The obnoxious sounds drove Pete to press his palms against his ears. Fear whistled at him.

You’re crushing your own brain, it advised calmly.

Dropping lead heavy arms back at his sides he ran down the hall.

Running in his mind, more so stumbling like a lost puppy in real life.

The turning point remained unclear; all he could recall was the sudden discomfort. The awkwardness in sitting there as Roger led the conversation, Keith giggling at the parts that weren’t even funny.  
In theory, dropping at 7 at night with a concert the next day could be a shortsighted decision. If it were any excuse (which it wasn’t) Keith did it first and gave him some to take.

The come up proved pleasant until one thought got caught on loop. He couldn’t stop looking at Roger.

When turning away it felt as though he were glaring back at him.

Eventually, Pete fled for water.

The hotel for that night held nicer than most yet a buzzing moth somehow snuck in. It zoomed over his shoulder and pelted itself against the hanging lamp above him. Pete returned to the main room which exploded with laughter. The lights shone blazingly brighter than before and the will to sit back down vanished.

 

It got weird.

 

Perception cast a barrier between him and the others as though he were watching through a sliding glass door.

They kept laughing.

Laughing at him.

At least, that’s what it looked like.

Intellectual speech failed him. He settled on: “What’s so funny?”

Keith said something he can’t remember. Roger chimed in, his hair changing colors.

“It was this time where… er…you had to be there I guess,” an exclusiveness in his tone.  
“You were writing and we didn’t want to interrupt you…I mean, you would have said no anyway”

That struck a chord with Pete for certain, other people putting words in his mouth. Roger putting words in his mouth.

Sure, being standoffish is one thing but he was still _in_ the band. It secretly bugged him to be left out more often than not.

They were laughing because Pete wasn’t there. Reflecting on all that amazing fun they had without him.

Why did he even care so much? That’s how it always was.

 

Them and him.

 

Jealousy sparked a snarky retort but it died by the hand on his wrist guiding him to the couch.

John.

“We’re all here now though,” he assured.

Somehow the comfort got lost in translation. Disappointment and annoyance replaced it and made Pete self-conscious.

“What?” he asked, confused and trying not to seem hurt.

“What?” John repeated. He didn’t do anything more than smoke that night surprisingly enough. The misunderstanding came across as taunting.

It frustrated Pete further.

“I said ‘what’ first,”

Everyone laughed at that. Laughed at him.

John said something before making him sit back down like a kid in time out. The conversation continued but everything seemed as though it were in code.

They were sneakily mocking him. He just knew they were.

What did he do to deserve that? Was it just easy to push him out?

Logic pressed him to sink deeper into the sofa and ignore them. Forget about it.

Of course, all is easier said than done when he could still misconstrue the glances thrown his way.

The discomfort continued as the couch gripped onto him oddly, slowly starting to plunge inward swallowing his body like quicksand.

Pete only noticed when it seemed too late, skin itching and atmosphere growing humid. Cushions crept into his peripheral vision and breathing proved difficult. Sight grew dark.

Conversation halted upon him flinging himself forward, sucking in an involuntary gasp for dry air. He found sanctuary on the floor and stupidly remembered the glass of water in his hand which sloshed over his knuckles.

“Whoa!” one of them spoke. They all started to sound the same.

John tried to put a hand on his back but he jerked away from the touch, still afraid.

“Breathe Pete… Set the drink down,” Pete watched Roger’s lips move. When did he put on lipstick?

“How’s the weather over there?”

That one was Keith, who was likely just as fucked up as Pete (if not more) at that moment.

The drummer threw himself to the floor as well, probably for the sake of doing it. His appearance evoked fear, like a dying dog doused in sweat.

“How much did he take?” another voice asked.

Pete turned back to Roger, whose forehead creases seemed darker than usual.

He refrained from mentioning he almost died in the vortex of the couch, knowing only teasing would come of the near-death experience.

“Put the drink down Pete,” Somebody advised.

Everything sounded so damn condescending.

“Don’t tell me what to _fuckin_ ’ do,” He shot back, shaking angrily. Words betrayed action and he did try to set the glass down but the table kept wobbling.

Blowing up and shrinking down, blowing up and shrinking down.

He did his best to get the timing right but ultimately failed, cup toppling down and water staining the rug.

Or was it tea?

All he knew was the stain kept getting bigger, spreading to every inch of the floor beneath him.

“Fuck,” he breathed nervously.

“ It’s alright Pete, calm down,” Roger’s mouth dismissed the situation. Pete wanted to punch him in the fucking face.

The floor was going to fall out if the stain kept stretching the way it did. They'd all sink in the endless puddle.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he warned the others, urgently wobbling to his feet. Keith who remained down on the floor hooked a hand to his ankle.

 

He met eyes with a literal dying dog whose fragile paw rested on his shoe, body eaten up by insects and decomposing, fur damp looking.

“Where are we going?” the dog (presumably) asked.

Pete instantly tore his leg away, clumsily tripping toward the door.

“You two aren’t going anywhere okay? Just calm down, everything is fine,” an outsider’s response.

The demented aura possessing the room made walls warp deeper, lower. The ceiling nearly grazed the top of his head as it floated down and up again.

He ran.

One could say there were pros and cons to his decision exiting the room.

Pros being:

-He wasn’t getting made fun of.

Cons:

-The endless stretch of symmetrically patterned carpet acted distracting.

\- Every door number he passed bared a series of complex equations that bled traces of shine like tail lights on a car.

And finally

-He was alone

His legs grew heavy from running for (what seemed to be) hours.

The isolation which typically induced comfort only solidified that no one truly liked him. They all let him wonder that infinite corridor because they wanted Pete gone.

Temptation’s disgusting and desperate voice coaxed him to turn back and let them mock him for the sake of company.

Pete thought over his 'friends' venomous laughter and literally tried to dig snakes out of his ears. He bumped into a wall which curved with his touch.

The one blip in that perilously featureless hallway.

A mirror.

He should’ve known not to trust furniture after the couch but stared into the fuzzy reflection.

At first, his outlines blurred as though he were composed of crayons, a portrait by Vangough. By stilling himself the image cleared up slightly. 

Upon closer inspection, he came to the conclusion that his skin was melting off.

The moisture and sweat on his cheeks provided undeniable proof that his body was in fact melting.

“I’m dying” he choked, watching his skin ooze like a wax figure in the sun. “Fuck-I’m dying I can’t die! I can’t!”

“Shush!” a buzzing sound rushed him. He stumbled back, tearing his gaze from the mirror.

The source of the voice stood as though it were on stilts, it’s face too far up to make out. With wings and many arms, its blonde hair fell so long it dragged on the floor.

“W-wh-who the fuck-?“ Pete stuttered trying to crawl backward.

The demon buzzed something unidentifiable in an abusively high pitch similar to someone inhaling helium before whispering.

“What?!” Pete shouted from down below.

It’s insect hand clasped over his mouth to silence him.

He was drowning again.

The demon scoffed something he couldn’t make out.

That’s the last of what he could remember.

 

 

 

 

Most visuals died off by the time he blinked. The duvet cradled him and the room seemed intact, only the walls breathing gently.

He was in a hotel room.

His hotel room.

Safe.

The door swung open and startled him. John emerged with Keith limp in his arms.

Pete snapped his eyes shut to remain unnoticed.

“Alright?” John greeted, the sound of sheets shifting gently across the room. He cracked an eye open as narrowly as he could manage.

Keith’s body was deposited on the other bed, John reluctantly tucking a thin blanket over his sweat-soaked form.

“Finally, where the hell did you find him?” Roger exhaled, sincere concern plaguing his tone. He stood at the sink by the toilet washing his hands. The threatening energy he once produced evaporated completely.

He was just Roger.

“Let’s just say the van is out of gas. I don’t know how he fuckin’ does it” John yawned. “ Nearly ran into traffic, crazy son of a bitch. Kept kissing people on the street left and right,”

Roger shook his head, cracking a smile.

The fluorescent lights in the washroom shone gently over his hair and face.

Far as can be from threatening.

“Pete was more difficult than expected,” he admitted.

That made the guitarist close his eyes and listen closer.

“How so?” John questioned.

“Well, when I went to grab him he kept shouting and ended up pissing himself,” 

John snickered at that.

Pete didn’t.

Complete hostility and embarrassment scalded his stomach. He shut his eyes tighter in disbelief.

Roger must be lying.

Prick.

“I dragged him back here and locked the door. Some lady came and told us to keep the noise down cause people were complaining.” He must’ve sat down because there was a sudden weight on the end of the bed.

“That it?” John quipped, seemingly unimpressed. He had to deal with Keith after all.

“Well, he needed a shower but kept complaining about the water being too cold. He couldn’t change the temperature properly but wouldn’t let me help. Kept screaming and crying even when I looked away.  I couldn’t just leave him there though y’know? He’d end up knocking his head on something. He finally came out but refused to put clean clothes on for an hour because the dirty ones would feel left out,”

That made John lose it.

Even coming down, the laughter stung viciously despite being well deserved. Were it Keith, Pete would have laughed too.

The whisper of Temptation returned and offered some choice words, such as: “That is absolute bullshit.” Or  “Fuck off.”  But Pete only laid there, acutely aware of the patterns on the insides of his eyelids and the worry in Roger’s voice.

“Tried to convince me he grew wings and went to run off the bloody balcony. I stopped him and he relaxed eventually, still out of it though. He passed out around 5,”

“Wow. Not long ago then eh?”

“Yeah. I’m exhausted” Roger complained. “ I took a shower meself.”

“I might go do that. You going to bed?”

“I’m gonna try” On queue, Pete felt Roger’s weight shift up to the empty space beside him. The breeze of lifted covers wisped over him briefly before newfound presence shared his space.

Temptation knocked again, taking note of the nearby warmth.

Fear made sure he laid still, listening as John padded off and the washroom door clicked shut. As if capable of reading minds, a pleasant arm curled around his waist and pulled him in.

Not like a snake, not like the couch. There was no sinking, no drowning feeling.

Only a warm pressure against his spine as light shimmered wavily from the window against his skin.

He confidentially allowed himself that and relaxed into the harmless company.

Roger took care of him all night after all.

Maybe they did want him around.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see I just had to incorporate the melting bit in reference to Boy George's bad trip.  
> I hope somebody out there enjoyed this. Thanks for the read!


End file.
